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The detective contemplated the question for a moment, rocking back on his heels. I had expected him to say no. It was an active investigation—one they kept intentionally private. But he seemed desperate enough to maybe give into Goldie’s request. Finally, he answered. “I can send them—copies, that is.”

“Why?” I asked. “It seems this has been private for years. Why give us access now?”

The detective put his hands on his hips, pushing his jacket back so his badge and gun were now shown. He looked down and sighed deeply, wearily. Finally, he looked back at me. "Every October. Once a year, like clockwork, for twenty years now, a new couple is found dead with their child gone. This fall will make twenty-one years. I was hired right after the first case went cold, and I’ve spent half my life since then watching people die, hunting for missing kids, and coming up with absolutely nothing. We have nothing to show for it. It's time to change our playbook."

“You know we’re not detectives? We’re just journalists,” Goldie reasoned, making sure he didn’t set his expectations for us too high. “Journalists you don’t even know and you don’t know you can trust.”

“I know I have fifty-nine people whose lives were taken from them. We haven’t been able to stop them. We’ve found nothing. Having you guys look into this can’t hurt us—not at this point.” Detective Ransom’s tone was laced with abject desperation.

“Ransom, we have a call for you!” Amy yelled from her desk. I looked to see her leaning over, the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. “They need help at the high school with the festival.”

Detective Ransom threw her a thumbs-up and turned back to us. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and fished out his card, handing it to me. “Email me here, and I’ll send you the notes and any case files I can. Whatever you need. I just ask that you send me anything you find.”

“Of course,” I said.

He smiled gratefully and wandered out toward Amy.

I turned to Goldie, who was still looking over the board.

“So…” I began, moving to stand next to her, our shoulders nearly touching. “This is insane.”

She huffed a humorless laugh. “Did we just uncover a secret serial killer?”

“I think so,” I answered. “And I think this small town wants us to find him. To stop him.”

Goldie

Ifinished printing out the final documents Detective Ransom had emailed over to us and placed the photo of the most recent victim by the rest. I had the photos of the fifty-nine victims laid out on my office floor in the order the crimes had taken place. I wanted to be sure I knew each of their names and their stories before I even thought about writing about them.

Fibonacci Files was about sharing the truth, not exploiting the gruesome end of people’s lives for fame and fortune. These victims were so much more than the end of their lives. They had families, stories, dreams, fears, aspirations, and even failures. They were so much more than this story, and I wanted to ensure that I honored them the way they deserved.

Fifty-nine photos. Fifty-nine lives taken.

Detective Ransom hadn’t mentioned the sixtieth victim: another soul targeted by an unknown force, only this one had actually survived. I was stunned when I stumbled across the name in my email, and even more shocked to learn there had been a survivor at all. Now, that victim's photo sat in the folder on my desk—a card I was ready to play the moment the timing was right.

It wasn’t rare for us to work on unsolved cases. It also wasn’t rare that we turned in information to investigators that ultimately helped close and prosecute cases. It was rare that we had such a large case that had so little tied to it. In the three days since Lexington and I had made the drive to Cherrytree Hills and met with Detective Ransom, I had dived into the case files that were shared.

I was shocked when the email came through and saw that he had truly shared everything he could with us. It was obvious he was desperate for help. It had been twenty years with no arrests, no suspects, and no reliable leads. This case had nearly no evidence on top of it all. Whoever was responsible for the murders and abductions was skilled.

There was no physical evidence: no fingerprints, blood spatter, or strands of hair. Nothing. The break-ins were all straightforward. The unsub would slip through a back door, the lock having been picked. The majority of parents were murdered in their beds, the children then abducted out of their rooms and carried through the house and out the back door. The parents were shot, and a damaged pillow was always found near the bodies, showing it was used to muffle the sounds. Whoever was doing this was efficient.

Oddly enough, each child was missing their backpack and various items. One was reported to have taken their favorite stuffed animal, another their slippers, a third their blanket they slept with each night. The items were never found, but the children were. Not right away… never right away.

The body found closest to the date of abduction was found two months later. The rest varied anywhere from months to years later. As of today, all bodies were found. All but one: Silas Graves.

I stared at the picture of the young boy. His black hair brushed across his brows as he smiled ear to ear in his school photo. His eyes were a dark, stormy grey, but so full of joy—that youthful innocence that we all lose. He had been abducted ten years ago at age six. He was the only child never found. According to Detective Ransom’s notes, he had assumed they had simply not found the boy’s body yet.

While it sometimes took years to find the bodies, it was obvious they weren’t held for all that time. The coroner estimated one young girl was held for close to a year before she had passed. She was alive the longest. My heart broke thinking of all she went through, all she survived to lose her life nonetheless.

The only trend among the victims: they were all trios. Two parents and a child, always six years old. Some of the families had other children, but the only children abducted were six years old. Silas, for example, had two older brothers who were left alive in the home that night. Twins who were now twenty-two, living every day with the majority of their family gone. They had found the bodies of their lifeless parents the next morning and their brother gone… I couldn’t think about it. It was too hard to face.

So many families irrevocably broken with no answers. No closure. At the very least, I hoped I could help these people. They deserved some answers to what happened to their loved ones. I turned from the photos, unable to stare at the faces of lives lost, and looked to the scans of the notes included in the data dump we were given.

The notes from the Watcher came infrequently and seemed to be from the same person committing these crimes. There was no rhyme or reason to them, either. Some listed the names of bodies already found with a sequence of numbers; others had coordinates, which, according to the notes, led to bodies. There was a note for every child taken, whether it was just their name, directions to their bodies, or the sequence of numbers that seemed to be nonsensical. They were delivered to random businesses and homes in town in the middle of the night. No one knew who was doing it, just that you didn’t want to wake up to a red envelope on your stoop. Nineteen notes in total.

I stood with a sigh, hoping to review it all with Lexington. This was his case, after all. I wandered from my office to Lexington's and was surprised to see his door closed. It was rare that any of us had closed doors these days. Not for any particular reason; it was just how we operated. I wasn’t even sure what to do.

I quickly knocked twice and shook my head at finding it weird. I was his boss, after all. I heard the sound of a scuffle behind the door and Lexington’s low voice before he opened it a crack, just wide enough for his head.